Service to the King
by geekmama
Summary: Jack's compass is pointing toward Shipwreck Island. Many thanks to Hereswith for editing, and to Artaxastra on Live Journal for creating the best of all post AWE universes with her 'Outlaws and Inlaws' series, in which these vignettes take place.
1. Not Working

_**This first chapter was posted in my 'Drabbles of the Caribbean' some time ago, but is the first in this series of gap-fillers for Artaxastra's 'Outlaws & Inlaws' series, found on Live Journal. Again, many thanks to her for creating that post-AWE world which I have found so inspiring, and to my dear Hereswith, Beta Extraordinaire! **_

* * *

_** Not Working **_

The food ran out before the rum, so that was all right, but the water looked like being next and he had to admit that wasn't a good sign., considering the lack of wind. And the compass, the damned compass, had stopped working. Or started working. The wrong way. Again.

It was hot, too.

Not that he wasn't used to heat, and scant rations, and even sailing the open seas in a dinghy, on little to no sleep. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, wasn't he?

But the compass had stopped working.

A couple of nights previous it had been. The wind had failed at dusk, and the sea had lost her bounce. As the stars came out, even the swells faded, and finally there was little to choose between sea and night sky, adrift amid the light of diamonds.

Rowing was too much like work, particularly when one hadn't eaten in a day or two. Would've spoiled the stillness, in any case. Much better and far less complicated to lay back, snug, nursing his bottle, watching eternity at play.

Only, he fell asleep.

_To sleep, perchance to dream, aye, there's the rub._

Despite his recalcitrant aid to navigation, he thought he'd rid himself of the habit of dreaming of her. Of improved scenery and infinitely better company. Bonfires and burning rum. The way he'd known she was trouble even before he laid eyes on her, slumbering Siren on the sea bed calling a man to his doom. The way she'd berated them all on his behalf, at one time or another, including himself. Of a kiss, reward and punishment, infinitely sweet, and bitter as death.

He was burning. Burning.

His eyes flicked open to a hot, windless morning in which the rum was gone, yet again.

Not the Locker, but so very _not_ good.

He took up his compass and opened it.

A lesser man might have given in to despair at this point.

He was not, however, a lesser man. He settled, and pulled his hat down over his eyes, and cursed the bloody sun, and would have cursed bloody Elizabeth Swann, too... only she was Turner now, wasn't she? Captain and King. Though still that coltish girl dancing 'round the fire in her shift. That would never change.

_Devils and black sheep and really bad eggs._

Bloody, beautiful Elizabeth.

He slept again, after a while, and dreamed again, disturbing dreams in which that _distressing damsel_ transformed to a _damsel in distress_ for no reason he could discern. He was muttering about it, and thrashing a bit, when the dream changed and the _Flying Dutchman_ rose, magnificent and dripping, from the depths.

The dinghy barely shifted when the Ferryman stepped aboard and crouched beside Jack. A horrid chill swept through him and he croaked, "Dead?" But it was all right. Will shook his head, his strange eyes dark and kind, and his mouth formed words familiar and comforting, though they seemed to have no sound but the sea.

o-o-o


	2. Going Home

_** Going Home **_

There was a bump, and a low splash, and Jack started awake, though he managed not to yelp. Then he looked quickly around and had to stifle another yelp: Shipwreck Island, twenty yards off the port bow of his dinghy, which was bobbing gently in the clear sea this fine morning.

"Bloody Hell!" he said aloud, then started again as a gray dolphin with merry eyes popped out of the water. She flicked Jack with a fan of droplets and chattered. Jack scowled at her. "And just what're you laughing at?"

The dolphin glided by the boat, circled, then arched playfully, right out of the water, half soaking Jack's coat on reentering her element.

"All right, all right!" Jack shouted, and struggled up, seating himself upon the thwart and grabbing the oars. "Bloody managing FISH!"

She surfaced again, scolding, then, with a final splash, took herself off.

"Good riddance."

Fine, defiant words, but quite at odds with his feeling of abandonment.

Shipwreck Island. Wherein lay Shipwreck Cove, infamous Shipwreck City, and all the many problematic inhabitants thereof, including Captain Grant Teague and, presumably, Jack's beautiful nemesis, Captain Elizabeth Turner, King of Pirates.

Will's words came back as Jack rowed, clear as the morning air. "Jack, when you see Elizabeth, tell her... tell her... oh, _God!_ Just tell her I love her. And that I miss her. Will you do that?" You'd have thought he was yet that green lad Jack had confronted in Brown's smithy nearly three years back, rather than Calypso's immortal Ferryman.

"Dunno where she is," Jack had protested, muzzily.

"I'm sending you to her. Don't worry!" There'd been other words, and Will's sweet smile, but they'd faded as Jack had tumbled into dreamless, restful sleep -- a spell of some sort, no doubt, for how else had the whelp been able to magick him here, three hundred miles from where he'd been picked up? Three hundred miles from where he wanted to be!

He stopped rowing for a moment. Keeping an eye out for that nagging cetacean, he checked to see what Will had left him. The chart, in its waterproof case. An unopened bottle of that excellent rum they'd shared the night before. But that was it.

Jack gave a huff of annoyance, and then reached for the rum. He took a swig, washing the stale taste from his mouth. Then, aware that he was pretty much stale all over, he dabbed a bit here and there, on his coat, his breeches...

He stopped and burst out laughing. _Mad Jack Sparrow_. "Well, who wouldn't be, eh?" he said, aloud.

His da would shake his head over it. And Lizzie... well, it was her own damn fault, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

_Tell her I love her..._

These were some deep waters they were getting into here. Didn't Will know of his ill-advised but apparently unavoidable dreams? He rather thought he'd mentioned it, sometime after they'd broached the second bottle.

_I'm sending you to her. Don't worry! I'm sending you home!_

Home. That was what he'd said.

"Don't do me any favors," Jack muttered, lying to the ambient air.

Home.

Such as it was.

He carefully corked the bottle and tucked it away, and picked up the oars again. Captain Jack Sparrow was going... _home_.

o-o-o


	3. Paternity

_** Paternity **_

His father had come out to meet him.

"Well, look what the tide's washed in," Teague observed from on high, as Jack shipped the oars and the dinghy drifted against the pilings.

There being nothing for it, Jack clambered to the bow and tossed the painter. Teague caught and secured it, handily. It was only a few steps up a short ladder, but Jack had rarely felt so done in, and staggered a bit in gaining the worn boards of the dock.

Teague noticed, of course. "Damnation, you look like death warmed over!"

Jack refused to be baited. "That's what Will said, more or less. Your powers of perception are as perspicuitous as ever. Got any rum?"

Teague narrowed his eyes, and Jack winced (inwardly). But his father only said in a wry tone, "Maybe some breakfast first?" and led the way.

It was a long time since Jack had trod the path to the kitchen nearest Teague's quarters, but it was still familiar to him. Before the battle with the EITC he'd stayed on the _Pearl_, mostly, when he wasn't in the Court. His soul itched as they moved through the warren of narrow passages, steps and ladders, though some of the recollections were all right. There'd been a time when he'd _belonged_ here, when he'd been one of the many lads who swarmed, pack-like, over Shipwreck City, learning every nook and cranny 'til he could walk it blind, the lot of them subject only to the very loose restraints that prevailed in this bizarre and secure nest for pirates. He and his father had settled there, after Jack's mother had been killed. Teague had been a changed man, and had wanted nothing more to do with sailing. Unfortunately, his son had been of another mind, even young as he was. Which had led to certain incidents...

Not liking the course of his thoughts, Jack tacked away from those particular waters. Instead, he asked Teague, "Is our illustrious King in residence? I've messages for her."

"From Turner?" His father shot a look over his shoulder.

"Aye."

Teague stopped and turned to face Jack. "Is the _Pearl_ gone?"

Gone. Oh. _That_ gone. "For the moment. She's still extant, to my knowledge." His father raised a brow. Jack sighed. "Hector... borrowed her."

"Again?" Jack said nothing, and Teague shrugged. "You'll get her back. Come and eat."

Well, that had gone better than expected. Jack followed his father up a narrow companionway and they rounded the corner to the kitchen.

There were fresh loaves of bread, and a pot of fish chowder. Jack hadn't realized how hungry he was until he picked up his spoon and had to make an effort to stop his hand shaking at the scent of the soup wafting from the bowl.

Teague just sat, cleaning his nails with the point of his wicked-looking knife, while Jack ate steadily. When he was halfway through, he forced himself to slow up. "It's good. Annie's?"

Teague quirked a smile. "Her daughter's. It's been a long time, son. Life goes on."

"Rosie?" Jack shook his head, remembering Annie's gangly, grubby little girl trailing after the boys in the most annoying way imaginable, alternating between whining and foolhardy intrepidity. "I suppose she's changed some."

"You might say." Teague chuckled.

"But Anne... don't tell me--"

"She's well, but getting on, like most of us. Rosie takes care of her, as well as those little lads of hers--"

But news of Rosie's lads was destined to wait, for there was a sound of footsteps and Teague fell silent. They both turned as the curtain over the door was pushed aside.

The phrase _large with child_ came immediately to mind, quickly followed by: _There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion_.

And she was staring at him with a mixture of joy and horror that seemed an exact reflection of his own feelings on the matter.

"Elizabeth…"

o-o-o


	4. Silent Assent

_** Silent Assent **_

The first night he'd slept like a dead thing (discounting the sort of dead things that frequent the Locker, of course, which don't sleep at all, really), but the second night something wakes him in the black before dawn. The details don't stick, he's been too far gone to remember what he's dreamed (and how long since he's been able to say that, eh?), but he lies blinking, sightless, brushed by the wings of nameless dread for a moment, until full realization of his current whereabouts returns in a rush and steadies him. Shipwreck Cove. Elizabeth's room. Elizabeth's bed. Elizabeth...

There's a faint movement under his arm, the baby exploring, and Elizabeth stirs drowsily against him, restless, catching his hand in hers.

"All right?" she murmurs, barely conscious.

He says nothing, just presses his face against the silk of her hair and breathes. He feels her smiling as she settles to sleep again.

She is warm and soft, and very much alive, and she trusts him, and it all feels like a kind of peace. She's still holding his hand, and it might as well be his heart, just as it's always been.

He won't tell her that, just as he hasn't told her so many other things. He won't tell her, but he's afraid she knows anyway, and maybe that's enough, for now.

o-o-o


	5. Knight Errant

_** Knight Errant **_

The news came not long after midnight, but well aware of how these things went, Teague waited a bit before he set aside his empty tankard and swayed up the steps to the chamber of the Pirate King. It was quiet, almost too quiet, and he hesitated to scratch on the door, but there was no need: it opened and two maids slipped out. They murmured a greeting, smiles white in the dim light. One carried the pile of soiled linens, the other two buckets of red-tinged water.

Teague's brows twitched together, but then he noticed who'd opened the door for the girls.

Jack put a finger to his lips and stepped outside, shutting the door all but a crack. He was a mess, wearing only breeches and a shirt that had surely seen better days -- and was that blood spattered down it? -- but it was Jack's eyes that stopped Teague saying anything against these sartorial deficiencies. The boy had seen devils and angels both this night.

Teague drew forth a flask and handed it over, not quite suppressing his amusement at Jack's sudden and profound relief. "You should go slow with that," he chided, though his own voice was slurred with drink. "Maybe have a bite to eat."

Jack paid no heed and soon finished it off, giving a satisfied sigh as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "Couldn't eat just now, but thanks."

"How are they?" Teague asked, casually. "Took a while."

Jack gave a mirthless laugh. "Forever, more like. Though Susannah begs to differ. Says it went quick and easy, for a first. Easy!" Jack lost focus, cheer fading. Reliving various key moments of the last twelve hours, like as not.

"They're fine, though?"

Teague's sharpish tone brought Jack back to the present. "Oh. Aye. Lizzie's just finishing up.. er... you know. Feedin' 'im."

"Is she?" Teague found himself remembering the beauty of his Isabelle, exhausted, but glowing nonetheless as she'd nursed a very small John Teague for the first time. He said, "It's a pretty thing to see." He found Jack eyeing him with some bemusement. Teague cleared his throat. "You don't forget."

"I suppose not."

The door opened behind Jack and he turned as Susannah came a step out of the room toward them, a neat bundle in the crook of her arm. She said, rather formally, "Captain Swann wishes you to meet young James, Captain Teague." She used her free hand to move aside the corner of soft blanket that shaded the tiny face. Baby James slept, looking sated, yet vaguely disapproving. Teague grinned, as much at Jack's delight as at the little one.

But Susannah spoke to Jack. "Captain Swann asks for you."

"Does she? I'll go then." Jack nodded to his father. "We'll see you tomorrow? Or later today, I suppose. What time is it?"

"An hour or so past midnight. Get some sleep, you and Lizzie both. While you can."

Jack grimaced.

o-o-o

Elizabeth was very still, but there was some color in her cheeks and she opened her eyes as Jack came to her.

He gave her a crooked smile. "You summoned me, Majesty?"

She smiled, too. "I find I'm not feeling quite as majestic as usual, just now."

"Majesty's in the eye of the beholder, love," said Jack. He sat down and took up her hand, cool and lax, though there was evidence of the recent past writ upon it, red crescents dug into the heel, a broken nail or two. He bent over it, letting his lips linger a shade too long for proper etiquette.

Her fingers closed on his. "I should be kissing your hand," she said, her eyes suspiciously bright. "You are forever having to save me it seems."

He found himself momentarily bereft of light words. _I need him!_ she'd insisted to the impatient Susannah when the midwife had fussed about Jack's presence in the room. He'd not meant to stay that long; had wished himself elsewhere for hours in fact. But that was all it took, _I need him_, and he'd not have left her for the world.

With rueful humor, he finally drawled, "Well, darlin', I'd tell you it was my pleasure, but I'm not that good a liar," and then lay down, taking his place beside her.

o-o-o-o-o


	6. Heartsore

_**Warning: This chapter may be rated 'M' rather than 'T' as the others are, and is dedicated to Hereswith, dear friend and best beta reader ever!**_

_**This is also my entry for the 'Lonely' prompt on my 10 Hurt/Comfort fics, so I'll be crossposting it there.  
**_

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_** Heartsore **_**  
**  
She went back to bed after Jack left. There was nothing to be done, after all. Though her mind followed him as he made his way through the winding passages of the Cove and out to the docks, starlit and silent, she felt quite blessedly numb, tucked into the comfortable cot, bathed in the dim blue green light, her James sleeping in his cradle close at hand. No lingering warmth, no faint touch of lips. She did not feel. She would not.

o-o-o

Her days were filled, with duties, with study, with James -- well, _Flip_, to everyone, including herself much of the time -- with her new life, her people, so many friends, and more than friends. Will was gone, but he could return, and would too, she had no doubt. Jack was gone, but she had never expected him to stay.

Her days were filled. Not so, her nights.

The first week was the most difficult. A nonsensical feeling of abandonment came over her when she laid herself down to rest each night. Try as she would, she could not regain the insensibility that had seen her to dreamless sleep the night Jack left. How had she ever come to this pass? Surely only a fool would place her heart in the keeping of a man for whom the term "wayward" had to have been coined. She could not blame him, no. Yet his absence was a dull and constant ache.

But her days were filled, and if at night slow tears seeped from the corners of her eyes and trickled down through her hair, and if her hand brushed the bedclothes beside her, of its own volition, in a quest for something lost, why those were matters kept secret by the darkness, and no one else need ever know.

o-o-o

She woke in the black of pre-dawn to a fussing baby and aching breasts, a fortnight after he'd gone. She groaned, sleepily, and for a moment regretted Jack's absence for the simple fact that, had he been there, he would have fetched James for her.

The thought that this might be what she missed most about Jack, that she could be as selfish as that, made her laugh -- and gave her pause.

She lit the small lamp and went to fetch her son. "Oh, darling! Come here then," she said, and lifted his sweet weight to her shoulder, and took him back to bed.

Was it true? It could not be! But as she settled and nursed the baby, she examined her attachment to Jack Sparrow.

She'd been reading of his exploits for years before they met, and though they were a mixture of fact and fancy, the gist of the stories pointed true: he was a trickster, a scoundrel, a pirate -- _and _a good man. It had been proven time and again during their adventures. The best of all pirates, this Pirate Lord of the Caribbean.

And he loved her. He'd proven it in a thousand ways, great and small, from the moment they'd met, and never more so than in these last four months. Consideration, laughter, courage, and just the right degree of sympathy or encouragement -- or outright prodding. How would she have managed without him?

Oh, yes. She loved him. There it was. She loved Will, but she loved Jack, too. He completed her, Yang to her Yin, as Tai Huang would say, and Will a line of contact between them both, for better or worse.

She sighed aloud, the ache in her heart less, somehow. She would not stop missing Jack, and he would not stop loving her. That had to be enough, for now.

o-o-o

Another two months went by before she dreamed of him.

Her joy at seeing Will so suddenly had translated to a desire to enfold him, to be enfolded by the man who had loved her for so many years, no matter that he was something other now, with uncanny power and knowledge of things so arcane she would never know the half of it. She had desired him, new wife reaching to new husband, but with her mind more than her body.

"That so another one don' come too soon," Susannah had said sagely, when Elizabeth had put the awkward question to her. "Better for the mother that way. No worries. Your fire just banked, is all. It be early days yet."

Apparently six months was time enough.

Flip had recently begun to sleep through the night, and Elizabeth was deep in slumber when the dream came, taking all her senses. Sweat and patchouli; Jack's voice rough in her ear, telling her what he would do, what he would make her feel; gentle hands ghosting over her skin, his kisses brushing her lips, his eyelashes brushing her cheek. The lips moved lower, tickling her jawline, sweetly lingering at her collarbone, before his hand cupped one breast and his mouth descended, teasing until she writhed, breathless. Whispered endearments, his weight half pinning her, his hand caressing, moving over her waist, around her hip. She turned her face against his shoulder, and opened her legs, and could not keep silent as he touched her there, _there_ where she needed it. She could feel him, too, moving hard and hot against her hip, though somehow she couldn't take him, use her own hands to make him gasp and cry out as she would have liked. "S'all right, Bess, let me... just let me..."

Somewhere in the depths was the knowledge that this was a dream, and she wondered at it, wondered if she would wake. But then his lips were on hers again, nipping, tasting, and she felt his smile as he pressed one long, too-clever finger deep inside her and used the rest to draw her over the edge of reason.

The baby woke, setting up a howl at his mother's apparent distress.

o-o-o

She comforted and nursed Flip -- her _James_, poor little man with such a mother -- and he finally slept again, as the sky was turning gray. Elizabeth put on a heavy silk robe, and went out to the railed overlook that provided the Pirate King with a view of her city. The air was cool and soft, and the stars were fading fast. Her people were beginning to stir, the smells of wood smoke and coffee drifting pleasantly on a slight breeze.

She heard a footstep behind her. It was Teague, just come in, fully dressed, and he smiled. Elizabeth said, "Have you even been to bed?"

He lifted his brows and smirked, shrugging. "In a manner of speaking."

She could not help smiling back, just a little. "Ah. I see." She turned back to the view, and he stepped up beside her.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked her, too casually.

"More or less."

They were silent for a moment, and then he put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "He'll come back."

Elizabeth turned, by reflex prepared to demand what he was talking about, but the assured voice was belied by the hope in Teague's eyes. She could not dash it, not his, not hers. So she said only, "Yes, he will," and reached up to cover his hand with her own.

o-o-o-o-o


	7. Wake of the Storm

_** Wake of the Storm **_

After a night of combined hurricane fear and Sparrow bliss, punctuated by catnaps, the new day had brought patchy sunshine, a cool breeze, and the revelation of the destruction the storm had wrought.

It wasn't as bad as it might have been. There was a great deal of flood damage on the lower levels, one of the docks on the windward side had been battered to splinters, and two ships that had apparently been inadequately tied on the leeward side had been torn from their moorings, foundered, and fetched up on the northwest shore, though it was likely they could be salvaged. There were few deaths, but one of them was Granny Wright, their best seamstress, and a friend since the first week Elizabeth had taken up residence at Shipwreck Cove.

It was Elizabeth who discovered her, the frail body twisted and still. The sight of her there, in the ruin of the back room of her shop, was a grievous blow. Only two days before Elizabeth had brought Jamie down to be fitted for a new jacket of some soft, quilted fabric that had recently been acquired, and Granny had exclaimed in delight over Jamie's increasing size and charm. All gone now. All gone.

That was early in the day, and, with the lack of sleep juxtaposed with the need to be strong and stoic, it set the tone for the remainder of it. Elizabeth was profoundly thankful that she would occasionally catch sight of Jack striding about, helping wherever he could, his ready smile as much an asset as his capable way of dealing with difficulties, small and large. In truth, he was at his best, happy to be back at the Cove, and happy to be lending a helping hand, or encouragement, or his own inimitable touch of humor, whatever was needed.

Elizabeth did well, too, and showed her mettle that day in spite of her inward dismay at some of the destruction. She was King, and she had no false modesty about her worth. She had proven herself to her people in battle, and she would now prove herself to them in time of peace, with Teague's help -- and Jack's.

By the time the afternoon had worn away toward evening, however, she was very tired indeed. She had barely eaten, and had only stopped to nurse Jamie twice, and these, combined with the lack of sleep the night before, had taken their toll. When she came across two boys sitting on a step, the younger of them sobbing over the limp body of the family's cat that had been trapped and drowned, she found tears of sympathy and weariness stinging behind her eyes.

It wouldn't do. She must go eat, and rest for a while. Maybe for the night -- things were settling down, makeshift repairs and temporary aid being well in hand for the most part. She slipped away from the touching scene on the porch and, alone nearly for the first time that day, began the long, winding climb.

Alone, but not for long. She had just rounded a corner into a narrow corridor when she heard someone catching up behind her. She turned, and smiled with relief. Jack!

He grinned crookedly, caught her arm and pulled her into the shadows of an alcove, and kissed her.

In spite of their accord of the night before, it was unexpected and a delight, and the feel of him, the warmth and scent and strength of him, nearly undid her. Tears threatened again, and she broke the kiss but hugged him close and hid her face against his neck, breathing slow and deep. It wouldn't do!

He hugged her in return, his hands stroking her back in that comforting way she liked. "All right, darlin'? Been a long day."

"Yes," she agreed. She lifted her head and made an effort to smile. "Very long. You must be tired, too."

"Aye, but a bowl of stew and a bit of a lie-in with my lovely liege'll set me up. But look here! I'd forgotten about this."

He released her and she watched him rummage in one of his pockets. He pulled out a small packet and gave it to her.

"What is it?" asked Elizabeth, beginning to unwrap the paper.

"Got them from a chit named Estrella, in Port Royal."

"Estrella?" Elizabeth looked up. "You saw her?"

"Aye, when I was nosing about after the _Pearl_. Seems she's married a tavern keeper in the town. Most of your old things were confiscated, of course, but she said she managed to save these for you, on the chance she'd see you again."

Elizabeth had got the packet open now, and there were two pale objects inside. She stepped forward, into the lantern light, picked them up and dropped the paper. "They're my mother's earrings," she said, stunned. To see them at this time, in this place...

Thoughts of days past overwhelmed her -- her dear, elegant mother, seated at a dressing table, putting these on, a smile curving the beautiful lips; her father giving them to her on her sixteenth birthday; the painful joy of having her ears pierced so she might wear them at her 'coming out', where James Norrington had made her laugh with his dry wit and his remarks about the callow young men who'd come to dance with the governor's daughter. And she had worn these to Jack's hanging, the day Will had told her for the first time that he loved her, that he had done so since the day they'd met. The day Will had saved Jack. For both of them.

She turned to find Jack looking at her uncertainly, and now she saw that he looked as weary as she felt herself from the ordeal of this day. So much loss. So much grief. "Thank you," she said, but her voice hoarse, and to her consternation and Jack's dismay, her eyes filled with tears and she began to sob.

"Elizabeth!" Jack drew her deep into the shadows and into his arms, and she clung to him, her face pressed against his coat, shaking in the effort to withstand the onslaught, then giving into it when it became clear he was not repulsed by her weakness. His arms tight around her, he was murmuring something into her hair, and though she didn't know what he was saying, it made no difference: she was not alone.

o-o-o

"Here, I've a hanky, somewhere."

Snuffling, breath hitching only slightly now, she stood back and let him search his pockets, and presently accepted the only-slightly-used lace-trimmed handkerchief he produced. She dabbed her cheeks until he tsked impatiently, took the hanky and completed the job for her. When he held it to her nose and said, "Blow!" however, she drew the line, taking it back and turning away.

Finished, she straightened, and cleared her throat. "I'll have this washed for you," she said, feeling suddenly awkward. She put the handkerchief in her pocket, and glanced at him, saying ruefully, "A poor creature, am I not?"

He smiled crookedly. "We're all poor creatures some o' the time, love." He stepped close, picked up her hand and pressed his lips to it.

There was nothing for it. She had to hug him again.

He returned the favor, with gratifying alacrity. But he said, "No more weeping, now!"

"No!" She straightened, still in his arms, and breathed deep. "Thank you, Jack."

"You're welcome," he said, and lightly kissed her nose. "Just don't expect me to give you earrings again any time soon."

o-o-o-o-o


End file.
